Wraiths
Garner, North Carolina, April 29, 1997 -- 10:23 a.m.
My name is Alan Frost Kane, the subrogated author of Sastrugi and by chance a minor character in this startling tale of the future. Currently, only a few people living in the present understand that this is also a factual account of a future once filled with horror.
On March 21, 1997, Henry and Jenny Quaker paid me a visit for reasons that will soon become clear. After their departure, I finally understood why my writing often surprised me by the unexpected paths it chose to follow.
My account of this strange encounter with the Quakers may help you understand why I have decided to expose myself to your derision by making these outlandish claims. An encounter that oddly enough, began with a telephone call.
March 21, 1997-- 6:30 p.m.
"Hello."
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"Yes, it is, though it has been many years since the last time someone addressed me as Chief. Who is this and how do you know about my career in the Navy?"
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"Henry Quaker? I recently completed a novel in which Henry Quaker is the name I chose for my principle protagonist."
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"Balderdash. Henry Quaker is a fictional character who was not born until the year 2070."
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"Certainly, if you and Jenny suddenly appeared in my living room I would be forced to consider your assertions."
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Believing that my son-in-law must have instigated this call, I responded to his next query with, "Okay, I am ready! Give it your best shot."
As I hung up the kitchen telephone, they arrived in a magical fashion defying description. In reaction to this startling event, I felt my knees begin to give way while the room seemed to turn in a slow spiral as I struggled to catch my breath. Just before I fell, my unexpected visitors rushed to my side and helped me to the couch. Their expressions of concern in response to my collapse served to stimulate me with a shock of fear for my health. After drinking some cool water thoughtfully offered by the young lady I turned to her companion and asked, "Can you cause your face to look like mine?"
Once again, I felt my consciousness begin to slip away as his face changed to a fluid state and solidified into an exact replica of the face I shave every morning. His face swiftly returned to its former youthful appearance and I closed my eyes while struggling to regain control of a mind stressed almost beyond its limits. They waited patiently until my curiosity supplanted the shock of discovering that the characters of my novel had miraculously become real. As tears came to my eyes, I reached out to embrace Jenny who had come to mean so much to me in spite of her brief appearance in my novel.
Calmer now, I turned to Henry with a million questions held in check as I knew he was ready to explain their presence. Sensing it was time to begin, Henry rose from the couch and returned with a chair from the dinette. After placing the chair with its back to me, he sat down facing me and placed his hands on the backrest. With a charming smile, he asked if I was ready to hear the epilog to my novel where upon I responded with a nod of assent.
Henry's smile faded to a serious expression as he said, "It is only fitting that I begin with an apology as I am aware of the harm we have caused you to endure. I am responsible for the compulsion that led you to spend over two years without a job while turning our message into a novel. I also regret creating the necessity for your wife to take a second job to make up for this loss of income."
"Nonsense! I did exactly what I wanted to do. My wife took the second job because she wanted the experience of working as a transcriptionist in a hospital. Of course, I am looking for a job now because I can not find a publisher for my novel, Mourn Not Their Passing. My wife's aunt said my title was too morbid so I have decided to change it to Roswell Revealed, Beyond the Cover-up. I hope to take advantage of the fact that 1997 is the fiftieth anniversary of the event at Roswell."
"Henry, your novel will never be published under either of these titles. We have spent a lot of effort to discover why and in doing so have learned there are serious limits to our powers. I do not think you have realized the full portent of our presence as it relates to Althea's desire for us to deliver a message to the past. Henry, I planted the story, Mourn Not Their Passing in the minds of thousands of people receptive to my thoughts. The events depicted in your novel actually occurred and the entire senior echelon of your government's Secret Service is completely aware of this fact."
Not my novel? Not my novel? As the implications of Henry's words and the fact of their presence made their way through my mind, I felt a great sense of loss. Not my novel? How could this be? How could this not be? I lowered my head to my hands in shock and became pleasantly aware of Jenny's compassionate hand upon my back, moving slowly, as one would comfort a distraught child. After feeling the cold chill of acceptance harden my heart I looked up to Henry ready to accept another blow to my diminishing ego.
He continued with, "In November of 1996, an acquisitions editor discovered your version of Mourn Not Their Passing, along with two others, in his slush pile. Concerned, he contacted a friend who serves as a minor functionary in the White House and shared his findings with him. Although his friend maintains that the White House cat outranks him, the editor was summarily recalled to active duty based upon his status in the Naval Reserve
"A Secret Service official assigned him to the tedious task of using his position in the publishing industry to find out how many iterations of your novel were out there. His search through North America, England, and Australia uncovered eighteen additional manuscripts. Much to his surprise, he even found an Italian version of Mourn Not Their Passing during an impulsive visit to Italy.
"He presented his findings to an investigative committee of Secret Service agents originally established back in 1978 to consider documents surreptitiously recovered from the mass suicide site in Jonestown, Guyana. This event marked the initial emergence of an often-mentioned theme common to subsequent suicide notes regarding a desire to embrace a mystical promise of incorporeal immortality after death.
"Intrigued by this multiplicity of similar manuscripts, they soon discovered the relevance of our surprising message to this ongoing investigation. Despite their initial skepticism, they correctly concluded that the delivery of the original message occurred in 1995 when this flurry of novel writing began. Unfortunately and much to our surprise, emotive harmonics splattered a garbled version of this message over several decades of time. Regrettably, this unforeseen consequence to my actions resulted in a rash of suicides that peaks some 20 years from now.
"Reacting to the information regarding Roswell contained within these manuscripts, they instigated the issuance of a presidential order rescinding all verbal orders issued to the Air Force by Truman. That order released the Air Force from Truman's ill-considered command and they responded promptly to a request for their data regarding Roswell. They currently hold the same items from Roswell mentioned in your novel.
"Your government is determined to keep this information top-secret at all costs. All the major publishers in your country have received a warning that a radical UFO cult is trying to publish a 'subversive' tale designed to promote suicide. This warning also states that those who choose to 'publish this trash' do so at the risk of expensive litigation. Their warning concludes with a promise to assist the bereaved relatives of those who commit suicide in the recovery of damages from those responsible for their loss. Without knowing the complete story behind this action, many other nations have joined yours in blocking the publication of these novels.
"Pessimistically, they postulate that these revelations could provoke a dramatic increase in suicides, unwisely interfere with current religious beliefs, and foster the collapse of the world's societal infrastructure. They came within one vote of attempting to destroy the data globe from the future and unanimously agreed that they cannot trust the public to respond rationally to this information. Jenny and I have been unable to reverse their decision."
"It sounds like seeking a publisher for Mourn Not Their Passing is a lost cause. Thanks for saving me from undertaking a prolonged effort destined to end in failure."
"On the contrary, we came to offer you assistance in assuring the publication our message. It is my sincere hope that the publication of your novel will serve to reduce the world's burgeoning rate of adolescent suicides by clarifying our message regarding incorporeal immortality.
"Chief, what are your most significant memories regarding your 384 days of service in the Antarctic?" Sensing my bewilderment, Henry continued with, "My reason for this question will soon become apparent."
"Well, I have the dubious honor of knowing that an Antarctic mountain bears my name in recognition of my service in that desolate region. I also walked out to the South Pole and lowered the flag to half-staff when Oswald assassinated Kennedy. As I walked out to the Pole, I wondered if saluting when I was completely alone was truly necessary."
"And did you salute when you rendered honors to your fallen president?"
"Yes! I thought that I could feel the comforting presence of JFK when I lowered Old Glory to honor his life. I held my salute and cried, as my tears quickly froze in a dismal cold so intense that its touch enhanced the sorrow I felt for our loss."
"That was surely an event you could proudly share with your children."
"It was although their generation never felt the pain of that tragedy."
"Tell me about the wind and the snow Chief. Tell me about the beauty of the snow."
"After a time, the snow that blows into the polar regions forms into a cohesive whole. The winds then sculpt the snow into a pattern of natural beauty known as Sastrugi. These fragile monuments of nature were often so beautiful that I would walk around them while walking between my shop and the main camp."
"Can you conceive of any way you can compare our visit with the Sastrugi? We have reason to believe that you can."
"I suppose I could consider you a temporal wind from the future attempting to sculpt the fundamental beliefs of humanity. Is that your intent?"
"We seek only to inform and hope that humankind will receive our information as a message of both hope and promise. Althea informed us that, given a nudge, you will elude censorship and publish your novel under the title Sastrugi as a free download on your future Internet web site, Sastrugi.net. By the time your authorities become aware of its presence, common knowledge of Sastrugi will protect it from their interference."
"And just who will pay for this web site and why would I just give my novel away? Haven't I lost enough on this venture which will probably accomplish little more than branding me as a charlatan? I can assure you that this dog won't hunt. I would have to be a few beers short of a six-pak to spend money I don't have on a web site."
"Chief, you will do what it takes to reach the public because it is the right thing to do. Both you and the Secret Service committee failed to consider the important question of just how many people have previously heard the original messages of Henry Quaker. Your novel will serve to reveal the answer to this question quite dramatically when it becomes available to the public."
"How so? Will Sastrugi ever become a marketable commodity?"
"Only if you take the necessary steps to get it before the world. Your success in this endeavor will open doors at publishing houses enabling you to profitably market further tales of our continuing adventures throughout the galaxy. We will, if you wish, share our future experiences with you."
"Not a chance. Once is enough for me. Please tell your tales to others and let them endure the accompanying stress!"
Realizing that my statement concluded our business, we rose from our seats, embraced, and they disappeared like the final flicker of a candle flame. Feeling exhausted, I returned to the couch and soon fell asleep. I woke briefly when my wife returned home from work and moved from the couch to bed for about ten hours of dreamless sleep. I then spent the weekend considering the expensive obligation imposed upon me during this incredible experience.
When I finally told my wife about Henry and Jenny's visit, she skeptically asked if this could be a delusional response to the many rejection notices generated by Mourn Not Their Passing. Her well-considered reaction to my anecdotal tale concerned me greatly as this possibility made far more sense than the preposterous likelihood that their visit actually occurred. Is this a work of fiction as I once believed? I will wait for the response of Sastrugi's readers before I attempt to answer that question. Until then, I will continue to live with the inescapable concern that my memory of the Quakers' visit may only be the delusional product of a troubled mind. I pray that everyone who has heard this tale before will find the courage to step forward and lift my burden of being the only one to report these revelations.
So there it is. There is nothing more to say other than I am well aware that other pages on my site make a convincing case that Sastrugi is a work of fiction. That was easy to do as that was what I believed when I was writing my novel. It has become clear to me that more people will read Sastrugi when it is promoted as a work of fiction so I have done so. Also, remember to smell the flowers while you are still able to!